The psychiatrist seemed undecided. Performed a number of tests, asked lots of questions, scribbled a lot, sucked the end of his pen. I figure he thinks I’m either as mad as the proverbial Hatter or I’ve got a serious eighties retro trip thing going on. He said the word ‘interesting’ a lot. The care worker didn’t seem to know why I was here. Or why she was here, for that matter. I asked her, ‘do you think I’m schizophrenic?’
‘Well, the preliminary report from Doctor Feltz – ’ she began. Then stopped. Doctor Feltz was the pen-sucker. Then she added, ‘It’s not really for me to say. But do I think you’re a danger to anyone or to yourself? No, I don’t. But if you’re going to get back into society, we need to ascertain some care provisions. Or at least, establish how old you are.’ Which was something.
And the priest? Man, he was something, too. Something else. The way he looked at me. The way he smiled. He smiled a lot. Most of the time his voice was very precise. Particular, soft. Then he’d look away and mumble pieces of scripture to himself, much as I had with the song lyrics months ago, whereas I was trying to see if I could get a reaction and I swear he couldn’t help it. It was like some kind of religious tourettes. I remember thinking, either I’m going to get out of here or I’m going to get you as a room mate. More than once, he asked me if I thought I’d come from an other. Or rather, an Other. Like it was a noun. A place. I thought, what the – ? And he’d gaze at me with his big, unblinking brown eyes and he’d smile his smile that veered from patronising to away-with-the-fairies weird and that showed his yellow teeth and I’d get all creeped out and clam up. All in all, I don’t think that my spiritual well-being took much comfort from our encounter. In fact, given that this trio have been the first outsiders I’ve seen in a year, they weren’t exactly a barrel load of fun.
But.
Kyle’s coming.
Soon.
They said, they promised, they’re setting it up.
And it’s then that I’ll find out just how fecked up I really am. How crazy. How deluded. How true. How real. Because Kyle will take one look at me and he’ll know, I’ll know, we’ll know and then we can start to rebuild, then we can start to untangle whatever unholy mess this is. Then we can start. Again.
Wednesday 26 January 2011
Monday 17 January 2011
Kaitch
Time to let the cat out of the bag. Out of the box.
I made the call. Started the ball rolling. Requested an appointment. Deep breath.
Twenty-five years of belief, twenty-five years of refusing to accept, twenty-five years of immersing myself in the theories of the cosmos, the universe, looking for clues, looking for signs, looking for – what? Looking for Josh. And now I might have found him. Or rather, he might have found me.
If I’m right, then this is going to blow people away. If I’m right, then we’re going to incur a witch hunt, a miasma. If I’m right, then the hounds of hell will be let loose, the righteous and the narrowminds will shake their heads and shake their fists and call us crazy. If I’m right, then this will make the Elephant Man look like a sideshow. If I’m right, then the world just changed. If I’m right. If he’s right.
So I’m sitting here, looking out of the window at the bleached-out London sky, looking at it shedding its dirty rain, watching the pools of water form on the courtyard down below, and everything’s grey and everything’s quiet save for the soft pit-pat-slap, and everything’s still save for the raindrops, falling and bouncing, and everything that’s going through my mind is focussed on a wood on the edge of a paddock, dappled in summer sunshine, the greens and the yellows cutting through the grey like swathes of iridescent paint splashed onto the now, and I’m squinting into the sunlight as I emerge from the backdoor of a cottage that stands next to the paddock and I’m carrying two bottles of icy Coke and I’m walking down the stony path, past the flowers that stretch up and sun their faces, past the two bicycles that lie carelessly on the lawn, out of the ancient gate and down to the wood at the edge of the paddock, and the sweat’s sticking my T-shirt to my fifteen year old back and I’m walking through the long, rustling grass and I’m at the edge of the wood and I’m calling to Josh in that moment before –
There’s a phone ringing. It takes a moment before I realise it’s mine. It’s The Institute. Confirming the appointment. And suggesting that perhaps I’d like to speak to the one calling himself Josh a day or two before the meeting. Perhaps it would be beneficial to call. I say that that’s fine and that I’ll call. They say sometime between four and six would be preferable. I say that I’ll remember that. I thank them for the call and hang up. And I look out of the window as the sky cries its tears and I smile.
I made the call. Started the ball rolling. Requested an appointment. Deep breath.
Twenty-five years of belief, twenty-five years of refusing to accept, twenty-five years of immersing myself in the theories of the cosmos, the universe, looking for clues, looking for signs, looking for – what? Looking for Josh. And now I might have found him. Or rather, he might have found me.
If I’m right, then this is going to blow people away. If I’m right, then we’re going to incur a witch hunt, a miasma. If I’m right, then the hounds of hell will be let loose, the righteous and the narrowminds will shake their heads and shake their fists and call us crazy. If I’m right, then this will make the Elephant Man look like a sideshow. If I’m right, then the world just changed. If I’m right. If he’s right.
So I’m sitting here, looking out of the window at the bleached-out London sky, looking at it shedding its dirty rain, watching the pools of water form on the courtyard down below, and everything’s grey and everything’s quiet save for the soft pit-pat-slap, and everything’s still save for the raindrops, falling and bouncing, and everything that’s going through my mind is focussed on a wood on the edge of a paddock, dappled in summer sunshine, the greens and the yellows cutting through the grey like swathes of iridescent paint splashed onto the now, and I’m squinting into the sunlight as I emerge from the backdoor of a cottage that stands next to the paddock and I’m carrying two bottles of icy Coke and I’m walking down the stony path, past the flowers that stretch up and sun their faces, past the two bicycles that lie carelessly on the lawn, out of the ancient gate and down to the wood at the edge of the paddock, and the sweat’s sticking my T-shirt to my fifteen year old back and I’m walking through the long, rustling grass and I’m at the edge of the wood and I’m calling to Josh in that moment before –
There’s a phone ringing. It takes a moment before I realise it’s mine. It’s The Institute. Confirming the appointment. And suggesting that perhaps I’d like to speak to the one calling himself Josh a day or two before the meeting. Perhaps it would be beneficial to call. I say that that’s fine and that I’ll call. They say sometime between four and six would be preferable. I say that I’ll remember that. I thank them for the call and hang up. And I look out of the window as the sky cries its tears and I smile.
Monday 10 January 2011
DI Bassett
I’m trying to keep an open mind about this one but something keeps nagging me, telling me I’m missing something. A dead body, looks like a suicide. Certainly the first two coppers on the scene thought it was. But I got a call from my DS about ten, saying that he’d talked it through with the SOCO and they both felt that it merited further investigation and would I come and take a look? Something about the blood splatter pattern. Something about the position of the hand around the gun. Something About Mary was beginning to grate on me anyway, so I left the wife and kids to the rest of the DVD and the last of the Chinese takeaway and headed on down to Clerkenwell.
Usual scene when I arrived. Blue flashing lights and a load of blue and white tape, stretched across the entrance to a tattoo parlour. DS Taylor shows me in. A small reception area lined with posters and photographs of famous clients. Ex-clients. One of them I used to know. Joe da Flo. Played with that band, VivaFish. Don’t hear so much about them now. I looked closely at his picture, remembering. Back in the day. That was a strange case.
To Alfie, No Fear, All Love, Joe da Flo. That’s what it said across the bottom of his picture in black felt tip. Alfie. Alfred Valentine Henry Dawkins. Tattoo artist, seemingly to the stars, judging by the framed rogues’ gallery. Alfred Valentine Henry Dawkins. The Deceased.
Just off the reception, there’s a room separated from the entrance area by a red velvet curtain. DS Taylor holds it open for me and we duck through.
Inside it’s like a cross between a dentists and a church with Aleister Crowley as the presiding minister. Fat candles on ornate candelabras and a large gilt crucifix stand among skulls and a couple of ceremonial swords. One wall’s lined with classical music CDs, another has an old tin sign advertising long-gone motorbikes besides which sits what looks like a German helmet from World War One. I double take as I realise that the helmet’s become a hat for another grinning skull.
In the middle of all this are three leather chairs, the sort you’d get to sit in whilst having a filling. Appropriate, jokes Taylor, reckoning that getting a tattoo must be like root canal work. And in one of the chairs sits Alfred Dawkins, half his face blown away.
He’s clutching a gun, a small army-issue pistol. Blood and brain have done a Jackson Pollack to the wall behind him. Drying blood patches on the floor. So it looks like a straightforward, if messy, suicide, right? Wrong. There’s something that doesn’t add up. The angle of his arm’s all wrong. The bullet’s gone into the side of his head. I’ve seen cases like this before, not many, but enough. Three or four. And the gun’s always been fired up into the mouth. No danger of missing from there, see.
I tell Taylor to get the forensics boys and girls and a photographer down here pronto. He says they’re on their way. I have a look around. There’s a few pieces of hi-fi equipment sitting on a wooden bench, old stuff, like it would be familiar with the eighties. A turntable. A CD player. A tuner. A cassette tape machine. The tape machine’s open. No tape.
A uniform comes in carrying two cups of coffee. He passes one to me, one to Taylor.
‘What do you reckon, Guv?’ Taylor asks, slurping noisily on his coffee.
‘I reckon it looks odd,’ I reply. ‘My antenna’s twitching, Taylor. And you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘A long night, Guv,’ Taylor replies.
Usual scene when I arrived. Blue flashing lights and a load of blue and white tape, stretched across the entrance to a tattoo parlour. DS Taylor shows me in. A small reception area lined with posters and photographs of famous clients. Ex-clients. One of them I used to know. Joe da Flo. Played with that band, VivaFish. Don’t hear so much about them now. I looked closely at his picture, remembering. Back in the day. That was a strange case.
To Alfie, No Fear, All Love, Joe da Flo. That’s what it said across the bottom of his picture in black felt tip. Alfie. Alfred Valentine Henry Dawkins. Tattoo artist, seemingly to the stars, judging by the framed rogues’ gallery. Alfred Valentine Henry Dawkins. The Deceased.
Just off the reception, there’s a room separated from the entrance area by a red velvet curtain. DS Taylor holds it open for me and we duck through.
Inside it’s like a cross between a dentists and a church with Aleister Crowley as the presiding minister. Fat candles on ornate candelabras and a large gilt crucifix stand among skulls and a couple of ceremonial swords. One wall’s lined with classical music CDs, another has an old tin sign advertising long-gone motorbikes besides which sits what looks like a German helmet from World War One. I double take as I realise that the helmet’s become a hat for another grinning skull.
In the middle of all this are three leather chairs, the sort you’d get to sit in whilst having a filling. Appropriate, jokes Taylor, reckoning that getting a tattoo must be like root canal work. And in one of the chairs sits Alfred Dawkins, half his face blown away.
He’s clutching a gun, a small army-issue pistol. Blood and brain have done a Jackson Pollack to the wall behind him. Drying blood patches on the floor. So it looks like a straightforward, if messy, suicide, right? Wrong. There’s something that doesn’t add up. The angle of his arm’s all wrong. The bullet’s gone into the side of his head. I’ve seen cases like this before, not many, but enough. Three or four. And the gun’s always been fired up into the mouth. No danger of missing from there, see.
I tell Taylor to get the forensics boys and girls and a photographer down here pronto. He says they’re on their way. I have a look around. There’s a few pieces of hi-fi equipment sitting on a wooden bench, old stuff, like it would be familiar with the eighties. A turntable. A CD player. A tuner. A cassette tape machine. The tape machine’s open. No tape.
A uniform comes in carrying two cups of coffee. He passes one to me, one to Taylor.
‘What do you reckon, Guv?’ Taylor asks, slurping noisily on his coffee.
‘I reckon it looks odd,’ I reply. ‘My antenna’s twitching, Taylor. And you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘A long night, Guv,’ Taylor replies.
Tuesday 4 January 2011
Joe
Tail lights glow red like wounds in the night. A sky as dark as the road spits sleet. Red, dark busses loom out of their lanes, belching mammoths carrying the disaffected and the blind, their sides adorned with panels promoting the acceptance of meaningless bland mediocrity. Don’t stop to think, baby, life’s too short, gratification’s only a card swipe away. If you haven't maxed it out. If they haven't barred your pin. Join the Revolution! Storm the barricades? Uh-uh. Just a mobile phone with 3D resolution.
Happy New Year. Happy new triple dip. The many and the few. The few that have. The many that have not. I’m one of the few. I feel like one of the many. Welcome to 2012. Follow the rubies shining wetly through the dark.
I’m on the way to see her. On the way to feel whole again. On the way to our own little bubble. Driving through roads that swish and roar. Black serpents’ tails to the motorway rush, bordered by trees whose black branches clutch and beckon, come hither my pretty, the few, few stars white knuckles on a demon’s claw.
Turn on the stereo, turn up the sounds. Soundtrack to a different time. A reminder of light somewhere in this dark world, where the sun shines hot and the cerveza’s on tap and the golden dancers sway in bikinis on the golden sands. Got to get away, baby, away from this, away from here. Get two tickets for an aeroplane, ain’t got time to take a fast train. Because something’s closing in and if you get left behind, you won’t be taken prisoner. No hostages to virtue, no hostages to fortune. And fortune favours the brave. Let’s start walking on sunshine. Turn these dark, dank days into the sweet summertime.
Happy New Year. Happy new triple dip. The many and the few. The few that have. The many that have not. I’m one of the few. I feel like one of the many. Welcome to 2012. Follow the rubies shining wetly through the dark.
I’m on the way to see her. On the way to feel whole again. On the way to our own little bubble. Driving through roads that swish and roar. Black serpents’ tails to the motorway rush, bordered by trees whose black branches clutch and beckon, come hither my pretty, the few, few stars white knuckles on a demon’s claw.
Turn on the stereo, turn up the sounds. Soundtrack to a different time. A reminder of light somewhere in this dark world, where the sun shines hot and the cerveza’s on tap and the golden dancers sway in bikinis on the golden sands. Got to get away, baby, away from this, away from here. Get two tickets for an aeroplane, ain’t got time to take a fast train. Because something’s closing in and if you get left behind, you won’t be taken prisoner. No hostages to virtue, no hostages to fortune. And fortune favours the brave. Let’s start walking on sunshine. Turn these dark, dank days into the sweet summertime.
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